


Can't see the forest

by toluenesister



Series: Dissolve and absolve [3]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toluenesister/pseuds/toluenesister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of Branding and Just As Well.</p><p>Comments greatly appreciated! <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't see the forest

Joker beckons at Bruce, still giggling, though his breath seems labored. Bruce makes a few steps forward, his mind filled with whitewater. Joker's face appears so alien and even more grotesque without the layer of makeup, as if the thick greasepaint afforded his features a bit of decency. The madman grabs the cuffs of his sleeves and tugs gently, looking up at him, his lips pursed.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Hm? Something on my face?" he asks. Bruce can appreciate the irony, but he says nothing, just shakes his head slowly. Joker sucks on the side of his mouth and stares suspiciously. He has every right to be suspicious. Bruce has just drugged him, and still, he has nothing to show for it, so maybe the results are to be found elsewhere. He heaves himself up, each of his limbs weighing twice the usual owing to the tranqulizer, sizes Bruce up and directs his steps to the bathroom. Dingy as this motel might be, at least they have a mirror there.

Bruce doesn't turn after him. He stands next to the bed. There's still a bit of his familiar scent in the air, and he takes in breath trying to clear his head. It doesn't happen.

"You took off my make-up?" Joker groans, reappearing in the room, his naked face unhappy and betrayed. Bruce still doesn't turn to look at him.

"Figured, since you killed the only person I ever loved, raped me and overall ruined my life, I was entitled to a little whimsy," he says dryly, but the Joker registers a trace of a mirthless smile in his voice.

"Well, as long as it amuses you." He smacks his lips, the sound bringing back some flashes from a week ago. Flashes that make your blood go places. Bruce finally turns to face him with a question in his eyes. Even the Joker doesn't seem to know the answer yet. He sighs and plods back to the bed, sits down with effort and tugs Bruce’s sleeves with enough force to suggest he should bring himself to his eye level.

"I can't keep craning my neck, I have a killer headache. What did you even give me?" He asks wearily, looking at Bruce, now obediently kneeling in front of him. They maintain eye contact, and somehow now it feels like a burden they both have to carry, not something that needs to be fought or enforced.

"Same thing you gave me. The first time."

"Some sort of poetic 360 degrees? Kinda hokey."

"I'd have to do much more than that to make it poetic."

"You could give me a hand instead, or both," Joker reaches for Bruce's hands and rubs them between his own, assessing the temperature. Then, he brings them to his temples, pressing down to keep them from sneaking away. He closes his tired eyes and lets out a deep sigh.

"I don't know, am I stressing you? Your hands are ice cold. Or maybe you just didn't eat your breakfast, since Alfred's away." Bruce flinches at the mention.

"So, now I'm a glorified compress," he says. They are talking. Exchanging words, sentences. And it doesn't seem to lead to anything, they're only talking. Bruce's insides are heavy with every word, and he feels the familiar urge to cry. Crying in front of the Joker has become something of a habit, apparently.

"And you're doing a bang up job at that," Joker tells him and makes the effort to open his eyes and give him a smile. It looks perverse, vulgar, and actually Bruce would have said beautiful had it been anyone else. He still doesn't want to attribute this word to the Joker; it feels far too foreign of a concept when he's with him. As if his mere presence obliterated all the positive expressions in Bruce’s vocabulary. Yet he did lock the door behind himself. Looking at the Joker smiling at him certainly made him feel a lot of things he didn't want to name. He forgot what he was going to do just a few hours earlier.

"What were you trying to do?" Joker asks him intuitively, still pressing Bruce's pliant hands to his temples. Bruce has his elbows rested on tops of his thighs now, they're leaning towards each other, achieving a level of something close to intimacy. He just shrugs at the question.

"Does it matter?" His voice is unsteady, the urge to cry still perching in his vocal cords.

"Why so nihilistic all of a sudden? Could it be you were trying to-"

"Was trying to turn you in and fake my own death. Or not fake it." Bruce has a fleeting feeling he could smash the man's skull between his palms if he only tried. He marvels at how vulnerable the Joker is right now, makeup-less, weakened, breathing slowly, his pulse lazy. He can feel his rhythms through his fingertips. It’s also a bit disconcerting, since it forces Bruce to admit the Joker is a living human being. He gets headaches.

"No, no, no. You're taking this way too far." Joker tightens his fingers around Bruce's elbows and brings them towards himself a couple of inches. Their foreheads are almost touching now. "Have you forgotten all our previous sessions?" No answer. "You did not do anything wrong." He seems to echo Alfred's words from so long ago. "It was all me, nothing that you did. No need to, uh, kill yourself. You could just, y'know, kill me instead?"

"Wouldn't you like that," Bruce whispers into their small space, their heads resting against each other now. It sounds so different when they're this close, as if their words gained another meaning with proximity. It's just an illusion, Bruce tells himself. The illusion of human contact.

"Oh, I get butterflies in my stomach just thinking of it," Joker purrs in a way that could only be described as seductive. His mouth is so close to Bruce's now, the tip of his rounded nose pressing against his cheekbone. It’s the opposite of what was supposed to be happening right now. Bruce jerks his head and twists away from the warmth, though the act takes a huge toll on the remains of his willpower. He would have rather stayed like this forever.

"Now, what was that all about?" Joker asks, staring at Bruce with one eye open, the other one scrunched in pain. "You came here, locked the door, yet you scorn my hugs and kisses?"

Bruce keeps his gaze down. His shoulders are shaking. The tension residing in his throat finds its release in a soundless sob breaking out of his chest. Then another. Then, he just lets it go. His tears run freely. Joker never lets go of his hands, now squeezing them instead of pressing them against his temples. He waits a few beats, then darts forward and scoops Bruce into an awkward, unrequited embrace. He allows Bruce's arms to just hang there, resting lifelessly against his legs, and puts all his remaining strength into stilling the sobbing. Rocking to the sides, smoothing his hair, kissing the crown of his head—things that should be done with a little more mockery according to his tastes, but not in this instance. Bruce isn't another victim crying for his mother in the last lucid minute of his life. He doesn’t need to be tormented.

He seems to be translating Joker's affection into his own brand of torment, anyway. Though he's not making any effort to extract himself from the embrace, he doesn't seem to relax either.

"Hush, hush, hush, I'm not trying to make it worse for you, I'm trying to make it better," Joker half-whispers against the dark hair. "Deep breath, come on." Another kiss placed on top of his head and a squeeze.

"I don't suppose it's completely lost on you that you yourself make it as bad as it gets," Bruce manages to push the words out through a swollen lump in his throat. He stays still. He allows for it to get as bad as it gets, since he can't seem to acknowledge the possibility of any other scenario right now. The warmth the Joker spoils him with might as well be hell's scorching fire. This hell feels too damn good, though. He does not deserve to feel this good. He wishes it were out of his hands. But he did lock the door.

"Do I really? And here I was, thinking we had something special," Joker drones with a hint of disappointment, takes Bruce's face in his hands and wipes away a tear with his thumb. "If it's really so bad for you, what are you still doing here?" Bruce keeps silent. He's not even trying to rack his mind for a satisfying answer, since there isn't one. Instead, he just smiles and lets out a chuckle through the tears.

Joker's features seem to thaw at the sight. The change is barely noticeable, but Bruce can register a slight shift. The madman’s forearms move to Bruce's shoulders, his hands digging into his hair, and once more he leans onward, bringing back the tingling proximity.

"You're melting my heart, you know that?" He sighs. "Y'know, today I wanted to let you do whatever you like, but..." Joker shakes with laughter and pulls Bruce closer, taking him back into his embrace. This time the body in his arms seems more relaxed, though still uncooperative to the point of exasperation. "Seems to me what you would like is to be babied." He rocks sideways, petting the dark locks. "Which kind of strikes me as a surprise," he adds. Bruce gives in to him, allowing the tension to be whisked away, since there's no point in holding on to it now. His arms are still hanging motionless, though. Joker grabs them and places them around his waist, then wraps his own around Bruce once again, giving him a squeeze and nuzzling his hair.

"I had you pegged for a guy who would never let up the opportunity to rip into me tooth and nail if presented with one. I half-expected to wake up in some elaborate rig. I really did come prepared for you, you know,” Joker murmurs against Bruce’s ear. The rocking doesn’t stop. “But I guess, similar as we might be in many respects, you’re still a good boy, aren’t you. Or maybe you’re just spoiled rotten, hm? Won’t lift a finger to work for what you need, you just expect it delivered to you.”

Bruce has his head resting against the Joker’s chest. He can hear his slow heartbeat clearly. He doesn’t move his arms, allowing them to enclose the man’s body. His warmth, his volume, his voice, it feels paralyzing. The weirdly parental and affectionate manner of speaking the Joker adopts sinks into him like a block of ice, yet he is half-hard. He’s in no shape to lift a finger even if he wanted to.

Joker heaves a sigh and stops the lazy rocking. He grabs Bruce’s face and searches his eyes.

“You look like you really need this, don’t you? Being held like this by a guy like me, is it the darkest desire you’ve been harboring in that heart of yours? Hm?” Joker tilts his head. “Or could it be this is the first time someone’s ever held you this way?” He adds softly. It’s difficult for Bruce to read the Joker’s expression without his makeup. His words are condescending, but his tone isn’t. His eyes look sincere, yet they cut Bruce to the quick. “Rachel never held you like this?” Joker smiles. The only thing in those eyes that Bruce can recognize is pure curiosity at what the mention of Rachel would spur.

Bruce regards him for a silent moment. He can’t feel his own face, so he has no idea what transpires to the Joker and what he manages to keep hidden. Rachel is dead now, he tells himself, and the only good thing that comes out of it is that she is now safe. Safe from Bruce, the one who now brings the dead weight of his arms to life and tightens the embrace around her killer’s waist. She will never get to know him like this. She is safe now. Bruce notices a small change in the Joker’s expression. He evidently did not expect him to return the affections in response to that question. Bruce feels his mouth stretch in a slight smile.

“Rachel didn’t know I like to be babied,” he says quietly.

“Guess she didn’t know you all that well, huh.” Joker raises his eyebrows. He caresses Bruce’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, as if trying to rub some color into the cold paleness. “Well, she was missing out, if you ask me.” There’s that smile again, holding Bruce’s throat in its grip. Rachel didn’t know him all that well. She was missing out on that part that gets hard just being close to this maniac and enjoys being tied and gagged and fucked by him with no say on the matter.

Bruce can’t muster up an answer, though. Joker keeps petting his face and hair, and he is still holding on to him, tingling all over.

“You don’t even have it in you to get angry anymore,” Joker states matter-of-factly. There’s a tinge of pity in his voice.

“I don’t,” Bruce agrees. He spends the next moment trying to gather his thoughts, though the Joker does his best at scattering them just sitting there and smiling at him. “I don’t have the right to be angry anymore.”

“Oh? And where did that right go?” Joker cups Bruce’s face in his hands and tilts his head left and right as if looking for it.

“Gave it up the first time...” The first time what? The first time the Joker made him come? The first time he touched himself thinking of him? When exactly did he throw away the illusion of having something good in his memory?

“The first time what, Bruce?” The madman mirrors his thoughts. “Are you saying I took it from you? That what you’re trying to say?”

“You didn’t take anything from me, I never had it to begin with.” Bruce can’t stand the eye contact, as if he were telling a bad lie. He knows he isn’t, though.

“Because she was a saint, wasn’t she? She was the epitome of all that is pure and just, and you just can’t stand to mar the image of her with your anger, because a monster like you cannot lay a claim to the memory of such a perfect little angel, right?” Joker forces Bruce to fix his eyes back on his own, squeezing his cheeks between his hands. “So you just barricade it off and take a plunge into the filth, hm?” His voice takes on an iron timbre. “Am I just comforting filth to you?” Joker leans in and pulls on Bruce’s hair, and to Bruce’s mild surprise, he does look a bit hurt. He gives no answer, though.

Joker clicks his tongue and shakes his head, rolling his eyes to the side. He pats Bruce’s cheek while his other hand remains snarled firmly in the dark locks.

“Silence is assent. I thought we had something more.”

Bruce stares into his eyes, developing a slight appreciation for his naked features. He is only starting to be able to read the Joker’s face, not caring whether what he sees is genuine or not. He feels laughter welling up in the pit of his stomach, flanked with something close to anger. His hands wander from Joker’s waist to his collar and clench over the fabric.

“Like what? What is it that you thought we had?” The words punch their way out of his mouth. He’s trembling, and by the looks of it, the Joker likes what he sees in his eyes. “You just played into my urge to give in to everything I tried to fight, everything I loathed. You’re nothing more to me. You’re everything I loathe. Just comforting filth.”

“A-ha, and since you’re in the mood for some self-loathing, you just decided you might as well sit here and hang out with me, instead of killing yourself and going out with an ounce of dignity. Easy enough to sell, but not to me, Bruce.” Joker grabs Bruce’s arms and pulls him a bit closer.

“Well then, what would you like to hear? What do you think it is that we have?” Bruce asks. His eyes are unwavering. He tries to register the tiniest changes in Joker’s face, anticipating brazen mockery in response to his question, though there is a voice in the back of his head telling him what he’s going to hear is the dreaded truth.

“I wouldn’t like to hear anything, sweetheart, I’d be fine just watching.” Joker squeezes him with his thighs and wraps his arms around his neck. “If I could just see the look you gave me back then one more time... as you were riding me, just before you jumped to kiss me,” he says with reverence. “It told me everything I needed to know. The truth. That I make you feel just the way you make me feel.” He leans in and locks his eyes with Bruce. “Pure. Complete.” He strokes his face tenderly. “And, in a way, sane.”

“You have a funny way of expressing that.” Bruce’s voice hitches.

“Don’t call myself the Joker for nothing.”

“You drugged me, raped me and carved my ass up just so you could feel sane?” He’s on the verge of laughing hysterically, and the tears are threatening to flow once again.

“No, no, no, that was before I knew what you can do. Now that I know...” Joker presses his forehead to Bruce’s. “That’s all I can think about anymore. Back then, I did it all because I had this gut feeling that you would like it. You did.” Bruce stays silent. He did. “But, now that our relationship’s maturing, I just wish you would return the favor.”

“Well, no matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’d be able to ruin your life the same way you ruined mine,” Bruce says dryly. The bitterness bounces off the madman, leaving him unaffected, and comes back to him, sinking into his stomach with a wave of faint nausea.

“Oh, come on. At least try, would ya.” Joker ruffles his hair and regards him pensively. “We need to cheer you up somehow, though, you’re in no shape for any ruining,” he says through his teeth, grinning. There’s a pause, and his pupils widen as if he’s readying for attack. “Are you ticklish?”

Bruce doesn’t even have a chance to process the question before the Joker’s hands wander to his sides and start tickling him. At first, he’s too shocked to think of a reaction, apart from the half-chuckle he couldn’t suppress in time. His mind has just had a chafe with a complete breakdown, and yet now he is being made to laugh against all circumstances.

“Stop it,” Bruce says, believing it’s the only thing one could say in response to this. Joker obliges for a moment, taking it to pull himself close and bring his face millimeters away from Bruce’s.

“Make me,” he says softly, their lips almost touching.

Suddenly, the absurdity of it all and the petulance in the Joker’s voice make Bruce’s blood boil. Joker goes back to tickling his sides, his legs wrapping around him, inviting him to abide. He’s smiling, and there’s no trace of anything vile. It’s all sweet, and playful, and grotesque.

Bruce jerks and tries to keep himself from laughing, but then his mind gives up and he just makes him stop. He plunges onward, grabbing his hands and pinning his body into the mattress with his own weight. He looks down and the heat inside his stomach spreads to his extremities, sweeping his head clean of anything.

The maniac looks so happy, he’s basically glowing, and his legs squeeze Bruce’s body even tighter. Their cocks are pressed flush together, and Bruce realizes they’re both equally hard. For a moment, there’s friction between them that makes him gasp. Joker’s heat, the firmness of his body, arching to press closer, his pulse Bruce feels gripping his wrists, and then finally the smile he gives him—it makes him want to blindly lash out and destroy something. But instead, he leans down to kiss him.

And it feels like goddamned heaven. Bruce is sure the sensation he’s experiencing right now people usually describe as having butterflies in your stomach, and he can’t fool himself into thinking it’s nausea anymore. Joker is warm and inviting. His tongue coaxes Bruce deeper into the kiss, he’s purring and writhing beneath him, and every moment of friction between them purges his head little by little until he lets go of his hands and cups the scarred face in his own. His skin is surprisingly soft. Bruce caresses it with his fingertips, slowly digging them into the greenish hair. It’s clean, nothing like the usual oily mess. Joker really has come prepared for him, and it sends a pang of indescribable pain through his chest.

Joker wraps his arms around Bruce and holds him tightly. This kiss is lasting forever, and neither of them is able to sate himself with its languid sweetness. Finally, Bruce realizes it is affection that’s spilling out of him, not some dark urge to wallow in filth. He doesn’t have much time to analyze the fact he feels affection for the Joker since the maniac has started tickling him anew, giggling into the kiss. Bruce is weakened, but still has enough command over his muscles to pin his hands back down. He lifts himself up a couple of inches and looks at him.

“Told you to stop this,” he says breathlessly, not sure where this is going. He feels a smidge of amusement, but more than anything, he is completely lost.

“And I told you to make me.” Joker grins and wiggles his eyebrows. Bruce sighs.

“How? Want me to knock you out?”

“Well, do you want to knock me out?” Bruce doesn’t respond to that. Joker shifts, pressing his cock to Bruce’s a little tighter. “Or would you rather enjoy me fully conscious, screaming your name in ecstasy?” Still nothing from Bruce. He’s just staring, trying to read him, but all he can think of is how much he wants to fuck him until he imprints himself on this man, much as he has done to him.

“I don’t want to knock you out,” he finally says, waiting. Joker was definitely getting at something.

“Well, then you’re in luck, since as I mentioned earlier, I have come prepared. There’s a bag on the other side of the bed,” he whispers conspiringly. Bruce looks at him, processing his words. Finally, he lifts himself up, momentarily mourning the loss of contact with the maniac, now splayed on the bed and his eyes following Bruce with anticipation.

He kneels down to unzip a small duffel bag sitting next to the bed, just as the Joker said. Inside there is jute rope, pieces of fabric, lube, a roll bag full of scissors and knives, a change of clothes and something that must be the Joker’s makeup pouch. Bruce takes the rope in his hands and passes a small length of it between his fingers. He looks up to see the man beaming. Still flat on his back, he cranes his neck to gaze at Bruce upside down.

“You want me to tie you up?” Bruce says, his throat suddenly dry.

“Yeah, unless you’re hot for the tickle monster.” Joker smiles and wiggles his fingers in the air.

Bruce is torn between wanting to see the rope dig into the Joker’s naked skin as he unleashes himself upon him, and being completely paralyzed with the prospect. Tying him up means receiving no assistance from him. It means facing it all alone. But it’s what the Joker wants for him, and what he wants from him. His eyes are dark with need as he beckons Bruce with his finger. The man places the bag with all its contents on the bed and climbs back onto it.

He stares at the Joker staring at him, unable to make the first move. He doesn’t even know what his first move is supposed to be. Joker scrambles up and sits on his heels, his hands sneaking beneath Bruce’s jacket.

“Are you going to stop me, or are you going to just take it?” He says, running his fingers up and down his sides, threatening another assault. The faint touch leaves singeing tingles in its wake, and Bruce switches off the thinking. He counters, grabbing the lapels of the Joker’s jacket and pulling it down in one swift move. He forces him on his stomach, eliciting a surprised, albeit happy grunt, and temporarily immobilizes his arms, twisting the jacket around them in an improvised knot. A little wiggling might allow the madman to free himself, so Bruce needs to work fast. He turns the strangely compliant Joker back around and straddles him. He’s breathing rapidly, and the rock-hard cock he can feel beneath his own is just adding fuel to the fire.

He unties the Joker’s necktie and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat, and then his shirt. His hands are shaking as each button is bringing him closer to the warm skin. All the while the Joker keeps nearly fucking him with just his gaze, breathing through half-parted lips. When his undulating chest is exposed, Bruce has a second’s hesitation. He wants to be explicitly told to touch the planes of the goose-bumps covered skin. Then, he realizes verbal commands would be redundant, since he is being led every step of the way even now. The maniac has arranged all of this for him, every part of this scenario has already been decided, and he can still pretend he has no say on the matter.

Bruce lays his hands on the Joker’s lower stomach and moves them upwards, brushing his thumbs briefly against the hardened nipples and earning himself a quiet gasp. He can feel the man is shivering, his heartbeat is racing, and there is pure lust in his eyes. Bruce is making him feel like that. The awareness of it brings an onslaught of emotions that threaten to break him down. He brings his hands around his neck, sating himself with the rapid pulse.

He wonders if the Joker would struggle if he were to strangle him right now. He doesn’t really want to hurt him, but his body wants to rip into him, grip his flesh hard enough for his fingers to break skin and reach inside. Instead, Bruce only lets himself gently touch his lips. He explores the dimples and crevices of the scars, getting lost in his own strange reverence, and he never notices the Joker has managed to free one of his hands and slide it beneath his jacket. His face doesn’t reveal anything mischievous; he’s still looking at Bruce with adoration, which doesn’t stop him from ruining the moment and tickling him again.

Bruce sighs and looks at him incredulously. He grabs his hand and holds it instead of pinning it down.

“Weren’t you supposed to have a headache?” he asks.

“You pumped up my blood pressure, sweetheart, and poof, it’s all gone. You’re one hell of a compress, y’know?” Joker extricates his other hand from the bundle and puts it around Bruce’s. “But I see I work wonders for your circulation, too. You’re all warm now,” he says softly and reaches up to touch his now flushed face. “And no trace of that ghastly pallor, either. Who woulda thought, for the first time in my life I’m a good influence.”

Joker is looking at him with such tenderness, Bruce is actually sure he’s never had anyone look at him this way. Come to think of it, this is the most affection he has ever received, having just spent these few moments with this monster. He fears to admit this is the most human he has ever felt.

His grip over the madman’s hand weakens, and Joker doesn’t try to draw it away. Instead, he interlaces his fingers with Bruce’s. His other hand lingers on his face, as if appreciating the rosy tint he was himself responsible for, then it rolls down over his stubble-covered jaw and Adam’s apple, to finally hook beneath the collar of his shirt and tug gently.

“Before you truss me up, c’mere just a sec,” he murmurs and brings his arm around Bruce’s neck, pulling him down. His voice drops to a melodramatic whisper. “And give me a kiss, like only you can.”

He doesn’t have to tell him twice. Bruce is really too far gone to second-guess his needs right now, and his needs are all zeroed in on the Joker. He wedges his free arm beneath his back, letting him keep clutching his hand, and lowers his head until their lips meet. And once more, he feels a surge of endorphins shoot through his entire body. He is melting into a tingling mess, but there’s a part of him still trying to convince himself it’s only an illusion of human contact, since kissing feels universally good for most people. But kissing Rachel, someone he loved—it never felt like this. This is completely new. It skins him alive, leaving him raw and exposed, unable to defend himself any further. Why would he defend himself against this, anyway? Vulnerable as he is, the only things surrounding him right now are warmth and comfort. He feels traces of reason being enucleated from his mind gradually with each move of the Joker’s tongue and each breathy moan escaping his throat.

The madman’s legs are still tightly wrapped around Bruce’s hips, pressing their cocks together. Bruce can’t pin down the moment when he starts moving. There’s no thought behind it, it’s like a reflex. Joker is kissing him back in ways that make staying still impossible. His fingers, still interlaced with Bruce’s, are squeezing his hand, and it’s a small thing, really, but it’s another first for him. There’s just something about the way Joker is touching him that transpires with every little gesture, sinking straight into his core and disintegrating him from the inside. He slides his free hand under Joker’s clothes and lets it move over his flesh at its behest.

Bruce is starting to sense slight changes through the madman’s skin with each thrust of his hips. His heartbeat is racing faster and faster, his breath is faltering, his muscles are tensing and trembling, and he seems to be losing his focus on kissing Bruce, letting out increasingly high-pitched moans. Bruce can feel the helpless shivers his movements spur, and he keeps rocking against the pulsating heat between his thighs with abandon, pushing his tongue deeper into his mouth as if he were feeding on the sounds coming out of his throat. Suddenly, the Joker lets out a half-moan, half-scream and pushes Bruce away a few inches.

“Stop, stop...” he gasps, trying to even out his breath with difficulty. Bruce has to employ everything he has left inside to oblige, and lifts himself up to get a better look at the Joker’s face. His eyes are glazed over, he’s flushed, and Bruce can still feel his body trembling.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, more than a bit breathless.

“You just... you just almost made me come,” Joker says quietly, smiling. “And I only asked for a kiss,” he laughs.

Bruce feels hot lava crawl down his lower stomach in reaction to this statement. The voice at the back of his head scoffs at him. He just asked this murderer what’s wrong. As if there was a single thing that wasn’t wrong. “You don’t need much,” Bruce says with a tinge of mockery, trying not to show how dazed and disoriented he was. He didn’t need much, either. Not in this state.

“Actually, I need a lot, but you... you’re just too much.” The madman cups Bruce’s face in his hands. “You need to tread lightly, or you’ll spoil the fun.”

That voice in his head proves to be a malignant mote of doubt. It’s starting to grow. “You’ll be having fun either way, as long as I keep unraveling in front of you,” Bruce says with a hitch. He doesn’t know whether he wants to cry or laugh. Suddenly, his head is swimming. He sits upright, escaping the Joker’s hands. It’s no use. Everything he has managed to push out of his mind for the past few minutes is now pounding at the thin membrane separating it from his consciousness, threatening to swarm him again.

Joker can sense the shift, and he knows it needs to be snipped at the stem. He lifts himself up until he’s facing the man in his lap, and throws his arms around him.

“I’m talking about your fun, stupid,” he says. He is nearly staring holes into Bruce, but the man doesn’t look away. “You know what, why don’t you do us both a favor and stop thinking about how wretched you oughta be feeling right now, but somehow can’t. You will never feel wretched with me. You will always feel like you belong. That’s why you’re here, that’s why you closed the door, and that’s why your heart goes pitter-patter and you’re positively glowing.” As soon as he’s done, he kisses Bruce, and Bruce can make out a fair bit of exasperation coated in overwhelming tenderness. It forces him right on track, delaying the breakdown for who knows how long. He actually feels the kernel of despair dissolve in this warmth. There’s a passing moment when his eyes sting and verge on overflowing, and then he realizes he wants to cry and laugh because he’s happy. The Joker makes him fucking euphoric.

The madman breaks the kiss and looks at Bruce, flushed and grinning, then grabs one of his hands and places it on his cock.

“Now, can I count on you to stay focused on the task at hand?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows. Bruce keeps silent for a moment, shaken with his sudden clarity. Finally, he feels his mouth stretch in a smile and laughs without a sound.

“That was awful,” he says. He doesn’t remove his hand, though. He squeezes the bulge gently, observing the Joker’s face. He can tell his breath hitches.

“Well, it was good enough for you, obviously. Now, c’mon. The tickle monster’s getting antsy...” Joker whispers against Bruce’s mouth and runs his fingers down his sides.

Bruce responds immediately. He brings his hands to Joker’s shoulders and slides the undone clothes off his body in one smooth gesture. The feel of warm skin resonates with his most basic impulses, yet he is now absolutely sure of what he’s doing and where he’s going to take it. He chucks the colorful bundle of clothes to the side, grabs their owner’s wrists and lifts them up.

“Any preference on how you’d like to be tied?” He asks. His own voice sounds alien to him now. It’s drenched with lust.

Joker is breathing heavily. He can tell things are about to go smoothly from now on, and he’s getting off on the anticipation alone.

“Anyway you like, sweetheart. This is your gig.”

Bruce smiles and reaches for the bag. Every time the Joker calls him sweetheart, it evokes something in him he thought he had long lost, but he can’t pin it down. He takes the rope, measures out an appropriate length and cuts it with the scissors, and the madman’s gaze follows each of his movements intently.

Bruce seems calm and in control, which either bodes really well or really badly for him. Either way, he cannot wait. He shivers when Bruce threads the rope behind his back and around his arms. To Joker’s slight surprise, the man doesn’t even leave his lap as he starts forming loops and knots, tightening them little by little. He leans in and presses himself flush to his chest, looking over his shoulders to watch his work.

His gestures are almost delicate, his hands moving in graceful curlicues, bringing the Joker’s arms closer together behind his back and immobilizing him without an ounce of threat. When Bruce is done with his rigging down to the level of his elbows, he stops for a moment and brings his hands to the man’s lower back, holding him intimately. He moves his head from its resting place in the crook of Joker’s shoulder and nuzzles his neck. Then, he starts kissing it, sucking long and indulgently.

Joker sighs and throws his head back. He didn’t expect this, but Bruce seems to be full of surprises. Ever since he started this little project, he had his money on Bruce retaliating with utmost hatred directed equally at both of them. He anticipated focused violence the minute he let Bruce off his leash. But weeks ago, when he invited him to a little fist fight to whet their appetites, the only thing he could feel in Bruce’s blows was this heart-rending need for connection.

If he were to be honest, the Joker did think Batman would ultimately kill him after the first time he endeavored to have him for himself, sooner or later. He thought it was the most he could ever hope for, and it would have left him satisfied. But he can see now, he was mistaken. The inside of Batman’s armor appears to be far more interesting than he had wagered. And far more insidious. Bruce seems to have inhabited his thoughts as of late in a way the Joker isn’t sure he understands. And right now, his hot mouth is seeping tingling pleasure into his exposed neck, and it replaces his composure with a sudden, burning and almost instinctual need to wrap his arms around the man and have him closer. He jerks his shoulders, but he can only move his lower arms a few inches to the sides.

Bruce chuckles against his skin, and it sends a surge of heat right to his cock. He lets out a quiet whimper when Bruce scatters a series of kisses along his jawline and licks his jugular vein, before he grabs the ends of the rope and continues to develop the rig further downwards. Sometimes he’s looking over the Joker’s shoulder, sometimes working blindly, going back to kissing and licking his neck and enjoying the increasingly desperate sighs and tremors it earns him. Finally, he’s done. Joker’s arms are intricately tied together down to his wrists.

“Try it,” Bruce says and leans back a little, but the Joker darts after him and locks their lips, sucking long and hard. Finally, he pulls away reluctantly.

“Sorry, I, uh... I’d have burst otherwise...” he says with a rasp and heaves a deep sigh. Then, he attempts to move his arms, but he knows it’s pointless. He’s wrapped safe and secure. He looks at Bruce with appreciation and smiles.

“You like it?” The man asks, smiling back. His lips are still tingling from the kiss. He’s going to enjoy finding out how far he can take the Joker before he bursts.

“I love it, but I’m gonna hate it soon enough, aren’t I.”

“Probably.” Bruce’s smile takes on a wolfish edge. “I’m not done yet, though” he adds ominously and climbs off the Joker’s lap. “Come here,” he says and pats the pillows by the headboard. Joker scoots over and lets Bruce lay him on his back, more guiding him down than pushing.

Bruce prepares another two lengthy pieces of rope and settles himself in front of him. He slides his hands up his inner thighs and spreads them as far as he can. Joker seems to be quite flexible. Bruce forms two loops around each of his legs, one near the man’s groin and one around his knees, and then he connects the rig to the one binding his arms, tightly tying them together. There’s no way the madman can close his legs now.

Bruce looks at his work and can actually feel the tug of blood converging in his cock at the sight. Having his arms folded beneath him, Joker is forced into an arch that leaves him completely defenseless, and the rope eating into his thighs helps stretch the fabric of his pants tightly over the exposed bulge. And the way he looks at him right now just makes Bruce sweat. He doffs his jacket, but leaves his black t-shirt on, hoping it might help desensitize him a bit.

He places his hands on the Joker’s hips and keeps them there for a moment. The anticipation in his muscles is almost palpable, but he wants to take his time. Finally, he moves them up his torso slowly and steadily, enjoying the helpless shivers he draws out of his flesh. Joker is smooth and lean, and even though he’s covered in numerous scars, touching him is just pure pleasure. Bruce rolls his thumbs over the hardened nipples, observing his reaction. Joker’s resistance seems to have already been worn paper-thin with everything that preceded this. He knits his eyebrows and tries to hold down a whimper as Bruce’s fingers lazily caress the vulnerable nubs of flesh. Finally, they stop, and the hot palms wander down his arched body, slowly, but the destination is obvious. Bruce’s hand slides off his lower stomach and over his cock in one, fluid gesture, and he can’t hold back a gasp. The man rubs him briefly before his hands move back up along his sides and over his chest. Then down again, grazing the sensitive skin with his nails, brushing against the bulge once more.

This time, Bruce leaves his hand there and cups him gently. He moves to lean over him and watch his face as he presses harder, then squeezes and starts massaging him through the fabric. His tempo is deliberately slow, but it’s enough to make keeping quiet challenging. Joker groans and locks his eyes with Bruce’s. What he sees tells him it won’t be easy.

The hand between his thighs is inexorable. It rubs him with enough force to make him squirm and gasp, but not nearly as hard and fast as he needs. He recognizes it’s designed to just bring him to the edge bit by bit and keep him there for as long as Bruce wants.

And Bruce wants to have him there for as long as possible. He smiles serenely and lowers his head to kiss him. His tongue enters his mouth smoothly and pushes deep inside, as the tempo of his meticulous ministrations increases minutely. He can tell the Joker’s pants are damp already, and his cock is twitching hard, but Bruce’s palm presses snugly against it and refuses to speed up. He keeps it up for good several minutes, before he finally starts going nice and fast, eliciting a sound that makes his own cock beg for attention. Joker is overtaken with waves of shivers, and they run stronger with every twirl of Bruce’s tongue and every firm stroke of his hand. He can’t keep up with kissing him back, he just moans into his mouth time and time again, breathless and trembling. He’s almost there.

Suddenly, Bruce stops. He pulls away and draws his arm back, watching. Joker tosses and convulses, his body trying to dart after the cruel hand that abandoned him a split second too early. He groans with far more disappointment than anger and thrashes his head against the pillow, panting. Bruce doesn’t let him cool down, though. He starts running his index finger up and down the length of his cock without a warning, enjoying how the man tries to close his legs on reflex, but the ropes are holding him in place. He can’t pull his arched body away from Bruce’s mouth, either. He whines when moist lips close over his left nipple, sucking, licking, kissing, paying it all kinds of attention while the finger keeps moving leisurely up and down the throbbing bulge, sometimes tracing small circles near the tip. Bruce’s other hand moves to his right nipple and starts to tease it, slowly but inevitably driving him insane. Joker wishes he could shut himself up and stop those pleading whimpers from jumping out his throat, since it’s no use trying to plead with Bruce. He’s not about to let up for a very long time. Minute after minute, he keeps him on the edge with just one lazy finger.

In spite of it, in the midst of all this torment, the Joker feels a speck of pride. His suffering is proof enough he’s done something right. He has managed to guide Bruce out of his dark and shriveled husk, and now he gets to enjoy the fruit of his labor. And it’s nearly killing him. He’s whimpering and shaking, and his body doesn’t seem to figure out whether it wants to escape Bruce’s touch or push right into it. Then, it makes the decision and jerks onward, making full use of its millimeters’ worth of leeway, and Bruce rewards him, pressing his hand to his cock and cupping it tightly. But he doesn’t move. He starts scattering warm, moist kisses all over his neck, sucking and licking on the sweat slicked flesh, but all his hand does is squeeze gently at a few second intervals. Joker wails and twists his head to the side, pressing it into the pillow when Bruce starts taking good care of his nipples again. The waves of warm tingles his tongue injects into them are going straight to his cock just to be trapped in Bruce’s merciless grip without a chance of going anywhere.

“I thought... I thought I was the bad guy,” Joker wheezes, trying to laugh but breath is snatched right out of his lungs when Bruce chuckles and moves his hand in a few slow, indulgent circles. It almost brings tears to his eyes, and that he really does find funny. Or would have, if he weren’t tied up, and if it weren’t just the beginning.

Bruce is now leaving a trail of kisses down his trembling chest without haste, making him dread what might come next. He’s not wrong. Bruce places his hands on his inner thighs near his groin, framing the bulge with his thumbs and index fingers, and his mouth is now inches away from his cock, still painfully guarded by the thinly stretched layers of damp clothing. It doesn’t save him from Bruce’s hot breath, though. He can feel it just fine. And also the warm, lingering kiss that comes next, and then another, and another, and then the lazy strokes of his tongue massaging every single inch of that fervid, pulsating bundle of nerves, ignoring the frustrated moans verging on screams the Joker can’t suppress.

Bruce seems to be very inventive with ways of breaking the madman to pieces. And quite efficient. He’s scattering dozens of sweet, little kisses, mouthing up and down the entire length, grazing his teeth down the fly creating vibrations that bring the Joker dangerously close to shedding actual tears, sucking on the tip and running his tongue in a meandering path over every single inch. He slips his hand beneath the Joker’s ass and squeezes, and his mouth keeps going on and on, sucking, licking, until the madman’s pants are completely soaked in both his own precum and Bruce’s spit, and his throat is dry as dust. Still teetering on the brink of crying, he thinks he hears himself muttering please between one moan and another. He hopes he’s just imagined it, since Bruce might choose to take a plea the wrong way when he hears one.

And apparently, he did. He unzips Joker’s pants and pulls down the waistband of his underwear, allowing his purple cock to spring out of its confinement. That alone punches a relieved sigh out of the man’s lungs, taking some of the pressure off the strained flesh, but Bruce doesn’t let him enjoy it for long. He dips down and engulfs the whole length in his mouth, bobbing his head up and down, sucking, and he’s not holding back.

Joker has never been big on obscenities, believing resorting to cussing in moments of distress was a sign of emotional weakness. But right now, he couldn’t care less about that.

“Oh, fuck,” he yells before his breath is punched out of his chest. He dares to look down, but soon enough he knows it was a mistake. The way Bruce is looking at him turns his nerves into a scorched mess, as he snakes his tongue around the tip of his cock and kisses off the buds of precum. Yet, the Joker can’t make himself look away. Bruce takes the shaft in his hand and starts stroking, and his mouth follows the rapid movements. It’s so perfectly hot and greedy, his tongue savors him like it’s the best thing it has ever tasted, and it’s Bruce who’s doing this to him. The same Bruce who cried in his arms and tried to twist away from him not even an hour ago. Something inside him cracks open, and he realizes he feels something much more than accomplishment. He can’t mull over that right now, though. He’s one tick away from coming, and for a second he irrationally thinks Bruce will actually let him this time. He’s pushing into the welcoming heat getting his hopes up, moaning louder and louder, but when he’s about to shoot, it all stops.

Joker growls, then whines, scrunches his eyes tightly and tries to stop his body from thrashing, but he can’t. It feels as if all of his blood has amassed in his cock without a chance of going anywhere, and he genuinely feels like he’s on the verge of bursting.

Bruce observes him without a word. His own thoughts seem so foreign to him right now, he doesn’t feel like this is all a conscious act on his part, but there’s evidence to the contrary. Each of his moves up to now has been premeditated, and he knows damn well what he’s doing. He’s not drugged, he’s not tied, he’s not being coerced, and Joker did not plan this. This is all him. He doesn’t want to know where it’s coming from, but he knows where it’s going. He wants to reach as deep as he can before he breaks.

So he watches the madman convulsing in front of him, not being able to subdue his own physicality. He’s covered in sweat, muscles contracting in spasms. He’s so painfully human. It shouldn’t be so awe-inducing, but somehow it is. Bruce punches the Joker’s chest with moderate force a few times, smacks it with open hands, and then does the same to his inner thighs, knowing it would prompt his blood to swim back to other parts of his body instead of awaiting a release that won’t come. It seems to calm him down a little. He opens his eyes, panting, and musters a smile. Then, he starts wheezing, which soon segues into high-pitched laughter.

“Oh, thank you. You have done this before, haven’t you. And I thought you were such a conservative dork when I first met you.” he drones. His breath is still shallow. “Hit me again, hm? It works wonders.”

Bruce smacks his chest again, forcing a pleased grunt out of him, and then rubs the reddened skin briefly as if trying to obliterate the marks he’s left. He can’t think of anything to say to him, and right now he wishes he didn’t have to. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to hear the Joker talk, but it’s distracting. When he heard the word please coming out of his mouth just moments ago, his first instinct was to oblige him. He had to put a lot of effort into making it worse for him instead.

“You know what though, you might wanna gag me if you’re planning on keeping that up. Which, I’m assuming, you are?” Joker seems to be paralleling his train of thought. “You really are a lot to deal with, y’know, and I’d appreciate something to bite on.”

Bruce remains motionless, as if trying to gather courage before he deprives himself of the Joker’s assistance for good, since that’s what silencing him would achieve. It’s going to be his gig, one hundred percent. Finally, he smothers down the apprehension and starts to root for a suitable piece of fabric in the bag. He finds one and turns back to look at the Joker. Still completely hard and lightly trembling, he’s smiling at Bruce with utter adoration in his eyes. Bruce feels a rush of warmth, and the goddamned butterflies swarm him again. With a tight throat, he brings the fabric to the Joker’s mouth.

“Oh, wait, wait, wait,” the madman stops him. “But what if I need to say the safe word?”

Bruce stares in silence for a few beats, and then raises his eyebrows.

“You have a safe word?” He asks.

“Mm-hm.”

“What is it?”

“Guess.”

“Rachel?” Bruce says without thinking, and it’s only when the Joker starts cackling and nodding that he feels an icy dagger twist in his guts. Still, he smiles and fastens the gag in a few fluid gestures, effectively toning the laughter down a couple of notches. “I know you’d rather have me raging and pounding away at you,” he tells the Joker calmly, not breaking eye contact. He doesn’t acknowledge his own agency over his words, they just seem to appear out of thin air. He cups the scarred face in his hands. “Maybe it’s not easy for you to understand what I’m doing to you, but I’m going to do this for a very long time. And if you need me to stop, just shake your head.”

If any of the emotions the Joker showcases are actually real, judging by his gaze he’s deeply impressed and quite shaken. And there’s another thing Bruce doesn’t want to name. The word for it doesn’t exist in his vocabulary when he’s with this man. It just doesn’t, he tells himself. But he can feel it just fine. Seething just beneath the surface, pouring out of him drop by drop as he lowers his head and starts kissing the Joker’s neck and collarbones. His hand slides down the arched torso and closes around his cock, beginning to stroke it at an even, languid tempo.

Bruce can’t get enough of tasting his flesh. It’s warm, soft, deliciously alive. He can almost sense the bustling nerve endings through the layer of skin, his lips revering the vibrations brought on by each little moan. He kisses his way all the way down and settles between the Joker’s thighs, then closes his mouth around the head of his cock and takes the shaft in both hands, running his thumbs up and down the whole length in small, deliberate circles. He’s massaging it thoroughly and sucking on the tip, his tongue rolling over it time and time again, until he can see rivulets of sweat trickle down the man’s heaving chest and the sounds coming out of his throat are desperate enough to his liking. Then, he stops and just firmly grips the base.

Again, the Joker loses out to his own body. Thrashing and growling, he’s just glad he’s got something in his mouth to grind with his teeth, but it’s a small comfort. Bruce doesn’t indulge him with smacking this time. He gets up, sits at the Joker’s side and slides one of his arms beneath his shoulders, holding him while his other hand remains wrapped around his cock. He gives him a few seconds to cool down before he starts moving it again, slowly, his grip nice and tight, from time to time affectionately rubbing the leaking slit with his thumb.

Bruce is staring at the Joker as if trying to burn the image into his memory. The madman’s eyes are scrunched close, and he’s evidently trying with all his might to calm himself down, but it’s hopeless. Each torturously slow stroke is forcing a whining whimper out of him, and he’s losing breath. Finally, he emits a sound so pitiful Bruce would have felt bad about what he’s doing had the circumstances been any different. Right now, it just keeps him going, minute after minute, and even the fact there is now a tear running down the Joker’s cheek doesn’t faze him. He leans down to kiss it away.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, but his hand keeps on moving. Joker makes the effort to open his eyes and look at him. He really does look distressed, but he shakes his head. Seeing that, Bruce lets go of his cock.

Joker clenches his eyes again and vocalizes his discomfort loud and clear, which quickly turns into a fit of laughter. Bruce watches him, smiling. His fingers tighten over his shoulder.

“I told you what shaking your head does,” he says quietly and laps up another tear. He remembers the Joker doing it to him after the first time, as he was sitting there fucked senseless, crying on the floor. He also remembers the first time he’s ever seen his face. It was coated in war paint, a blurred image on the screen. Now he’s right here, all flushed and vulnerable, his eyelashes wet with tears, sticking together in tufts. Bruce can even count the freckles on his nose. Suddenly, he feels a tug of possessiveness. He tries not to think of all the things the Joker evokes in him, but he gets dragged down along with it all the same.

He rights himself up and reaches for the scissors. Then, he grabs the waistband of the Joker’s pants and starts cutting, maneuvering the blades so he doesn’t end up hurting him, but still managing to sneak beneath the ropes. It takes him a while to do away with one pant leg, so he takes a little break to suck on the still hard cock and bring the Joker back to the edge. It doesn’t cease to amaze him how good it feels to have this velvet, hot flesh in his mouth, feel it throb against his tongue, to watch him come apart with its every move.

He’s always known the madman was obsessed with him in more ways than one, but now he starts to discern a seedling of his own obsession. He dips low until the head of the Joker’s cock presses against the back of his throat and sucks hard. He stops and smiles the moment he hears crying, and then gets back to slicing his pants off his body. Joker is laughing again, shaking and tearing up. Bruce realizes he finds great comfort in having him like that. He feels sane, against everything pointing to the contrary.

He finishes struggling with the pants and underwear, tossing the cut up pieces of fabric to the side. He also removes his shoes and colorful socks, and takes a moment to admire the view. He’s in no shape to deny the Joker looks absolutely beautiful to him right now.

Bruce realizes his t-shirt is pretty much soaked in sweat, so he decides it’s about time he discarded it. As soon as he sends it to the floor, he can feel the Joker’s gaze burning into his exposed body. When he looks back at him, it hits him that he’s never felt so wanted in his entire life. Provided it’s not just the man’s thespian talents, but as Bruce places his hands on both sides of his head and locks their eyes, he just knows. It’s not acting, it’s not make-believe. It seeps into the marrow of his bones, suffuses him completely until his eyes burn. In this one instance, he knows the Joker loves him.

His head feels numb. He lowers himself down until their chests are pressed together, and the feel of naked skin against his own makes his nerve endings sparkle. There’s no way he can tow himself back to the surface now. He smiles at the man and strokes his face, seeing the smile mirrored in his eyes. Then, he laughs silently without realizing there’s a tear running down his cheek.

“So, did you clean yourself?” He asks, still smiling, and as expected, the Joker bursts out giggling at the brazen echoing of his own words from before. He nods energetically. Bruce chuckles and touches his mouth before he leans in and sucks on his lower lip, biting and tugging gently on his way up. He can see the veil of amusement covering up something much more drastic that his little display has spurred in the madman. Knowing he has this kind of power over him would have felt good, probably, if it weren’t so utterly devastating.

Bruce sits upright and places his hands on the Joker’s chest. He moves them up and down his body in lazy patterns. Then, he digs his nails into his sides and runs them down, scratching lightly. This small gesture works like a lash, and makes it painfully apparent the Joker’s nowhere near a safe distance from the edge. Bruce caresses his skin for a few more minutes, grazing his nails down his inner thighs, ghosting up the twitching muscles of his stomach and chest, then moving steadily down, pressing fire into the shivering flesh. He lowers his head to scatter flitting kisses over the Joker’s nipples and then suck on them without haste while his hand wanders between his thighs, giving his cock a few nice, long strokes before it slips further down and starts rubbing his asshole. Soon enough, he’s going to fuck him. He feels dizzy just thinking of it, and his blood is close to boiling with every tiny moan leaving the Joker’s mouth.

Bruce licks his way down the sweat-covered planes of the madman’s body and briefly sucks on the tip of his cock, rolling his tongue over the sensitive slit. Then, he leaves a trail of kisses down the shaft and sucks on each of his balls while he slides his hands beneath his ass to lift it up a little for better access. He kisses and licks the puckered asshole, then starts prodding it with his tongue, pushing it deeper and deeper, running it in numerous, small circles, until the screams are too much for him to handle.

Bruce feels he’s slowly but inevitably reaching his own limit, both physically and emotionally. The bottle of lube appears in his hand, but he doesn’t acknowledge having reached for it. He squeezes a generous dab onto his index finger and pushes it into the tight warmth. He feels the flesh clench around him, and the way the Joker groans makes him wonder if he’s the first person to ever do this to him.

“Have you done this before?” Bruce finds himself asking. He’s fairly sure hot steam has now replaced everything he used to have inside his head, effectively eliminating the distance between thinking and speaking. He’s not moving his hand yet, awaiting the answer. Joker looks at him and does his best to articulate a no through the gag, lest Bruce decides to take him shaking his head the wrong way again.

Bruce feels traces of laughter in his own breath as he snarls his fist in the greenish hair and leans in, their faces now inches apart. He rams his finger a little deeper, eliciting a startled sigh.

“Then you need to relax, or it’s going to really fucking hurt,” he tells him. “I’m speaking from experience.”

Joker starts to cackle. He tries to say sorry, but what comes out of his mouth is far from intelligible. Quickly enough, his mirth turns into a shock, and he gasps when the finger inside him presses upwards and hits the spot. Bruce starts rubbing it slowly, observing how the man’s eyes open wide and his breath stops for a few good seconds before it punches out of his lungs with the loudest, most satisfying moan Bruce could ever hope for. He removes his finger and sticks the tip of the lube bottle into the Joker’s asshole, squeezing a fair amount inside. His experience also taught him it might be a good idea.

Sating his ears with the strained wheezing, Bruce starts preparing him anew, this time sliding two of his fingers in. He spreads them gently in all directions, stretching, scissoring and twirling them in a circular motion. Every time he aims upward, the Joker screams and more tears run down his face. After couple of minutes, he adds another finger and significantly slows down his tempo, focusing on leisurely massaging the right place. He lowers his head over the Joker’s cock and breathes against it, watching it twitch, and then scatters a series of moist kisses going up the shaft until he reaches the head and laps up the translucent beads of precum.

It feels as if the Joker is cursing him with every groan that rips out of his mouth as he keeps sucking on the very tip. His free hand wanders upwards and rubs the reddened nipple, giving it a light pinch every now and then. When the groans start mashing into one big lamentation, his mouth follows and ascends up the Joker’s torso until it reaches his other nipple. He kisses it tenderly and rolls the stiffened tip of his tongue over it time and time again. Finally, he starts ramming his fingers inside fast and hard, and the way the madman starts bucking his hips tells him he’s more than ready. He welcomes the feral growl upon stopping his ministrations with a smile and lifts his head.

“Did that hurt, what I did just now?” He asks. Joker manages a muffled no between one wheeze and another.

No, it didn’t hurt. It nearly killed him, that’s all it did. That’s what it feels like, the whole ordeal. Joker thought he knew all about torturing people, but sadly, or happily, gloriously, exultantly, he was mistaken, and now he’s getting his face all rubbed into it. Every word, every smile Bruce graces him with, it makes him equal parts proud and petrified. Who would have thought that losing the pointy ears could bring out the true reserves of his potential in dealing out terror to the scum of the Earth? Although, judging by the way Bruce is looking at him right now, as he settles between his thighs and starts unzipping his pants, the Joker is no scum to him. He’s not the piece of garbage who killed the one true love of his life. He’s not his comforting filth. And he never suspected triumph could be this excruciating.

Bruce pulls down his pants and underwear, not bothering to take them all the way off. He spreads a dollop of lube over the aching length of his cock, painfully aware of how neglected it has been until now. He knows he can last for a while longer, though. Exercising self-control in this instance might very well be the last thing his training will be useful for. He positions himself and starts entering the welcoming warmth, gripping the Joker’s hips. When he’s completely buried, he looks at him with a smile. This monster might be the last person he ever smiles at, and the first person in years who’s made his smile truly mean something.

“Is this alright?” He asks him. He has no idea why he’s going out of his way not to hurt him, but then again, these are his parting rituals. There’s no point for any kind of pain to be involved.

Joker nods and tries to push against him as much as he can as if inviting him to finally take care of himself. His eyes are smiling back at him. Bruce bites down on the inside of his cheek to ward off the stinging in his eyes and tries to even out his breath despite the tightness in his throat. He starts to fuck him slowly, trying to savor the way he feels. Even now, he wants to stretch it out in time. He lets his hands meander over the Joker’s skin, and he can almost feel the ripples of pleasure each lazy thrust sends through his body. He leans down to kiss his neck, wrapping his arms around his waist to get a bit more leverage. Joker cants his hips to get as much as he can, but Bruce doesn’t speed up. He lowers himself a bit more until their chests are pressed together. Sucking on the pulse point through the thin layer of flesh, he tightens his embrace and holds him close.

Bruce is starting to alternate his tempo, differentiating between long, smooth strokes and short series of fast, shallow ones, focusing on aiming his cock at the place that makes the Joker scream and almost bite through his gag. He moves his right hand upwards and grabs his scarred face, maintaining the eye contact as he pushes into the heat as deep as he can and starts moving his hips in a circular motion. Joker’s eyes roll back. It looks like he’s lost his voice. What comes out of him are just frayed sighs laced with short, keening whimpers, resonating well enough with Bruce to make him feel like he’s melting. The madman’s cock is trapped between their bodies, and even though Bruce makes sure it gets enough friction to keep him on the verge, he thinks it’s about time he gave him a bit more.

He mouths around the gag and bites the Joker’s lower lip gently, still making a point not to cause him any pain. Then, he kisses the scar splitting it in the middle, rights himself and looks down. This sight he will gladly take to his grave. Which might not be long from now, but in this moment Bruce just feeds his eyes without shame. He watches the expanses of pink, flushed skin covered with a sheen of sweat, the trembling, lean muscles. The flesh responsive to his every action to the point of convulsing. The edges of his vision are getting blurry, and maybe it’s the harbinger of a showdown. The pressure inside his head is unbearable.

He grabs the Joker’s cock and starts beating him off, aligning the movements of his hand with the rhythm of his hips. A lot of care goes into making each thrust as deep, thorough and accurate as possible. Bruce finds himself purring softly every time he squeezes the precum-slicked shaft, as it makes the man involuntarily tighten and buck his hips harder, feverish and pulsating around his cock. And the way he sounds is only adding to it all. When Bruce’s head falls dark and he starts to fuck the Joker at a no-nonsense tempo, and keeps it up long enough to give him a ray of hope, the delighted scream that rips out of his parched throat lodges itself in Bruce’s lower stomach like a piece of shrapnel and sends a surge of rending heat right to his cock. He can barely see now. He lowers his head and kisses blindly at the arched body. His speed goes up, and up, and up, and they’re both almost there, and he can feel the Joker’s euphoria permeating through his skin into his very core.

But then the Joker gasps hard enough to choke on his own spit. At first Bruce doesn’t register what’s going on, but he stops, letting his confusion get the best of him for a split second. Then, it’s just automatic. He pulls out and quickly lifts the man up, helping him get on his knees and assume a position more conducive to coughing his lungs up. Bruce grabs the scissors, cuts the gag as carefully as he can and takes it out of his mouth. It doesn’t last much longer though, soon enough there’s just the sound of panting parting the silence. Joker looks up wearily, but he’s grinning.

“Aw, I’m sorry, I ruined the moment,” he rasps and clears his throat. He’s still fairly breathless.

Bruce bores his eyes into him and remains motionless long enough for the sweat on his skin to cool down. Joker doesn’t say or do anything except for looking back at him with a lot of warmth and a lot of questions. The man brings the scissors to the ropes twining his arms together and starts cutting in silence. Joker clicks his tongue and scrunches his face apologetically.

“It’s that bad, huh?” He tilts his head, trying to catch Bruce’s gaze. “Hm? Oh, c’mon, it’s not unsalvageable, right?”

He starts to open his mouth again, but Bruce interrupts him mid-sentence with the sweetest kiss the Joker has earned himself yet, and he does keep good track of them all. He sighs and returns it gladly, not realizing his arms are now free. They’re completely numb. Bruce also removes the rig from his legs, exposing the bondage marks, first white, then blooming red. He waits for a few seconds before he starts rubbing his shoulders as if trying to breathe life into them. They both break the kiss to look at each other. Joker observes Bruce’s ministrations without a word.

“You just missed my strong, burly arms around you, didn’t ya”, he says gravelly, but he’s clearly amused. Bruce smiles and his breath shakes with traces of laughter.

He just didn’t want to be on his own in these last moments. There’s a fatal sense of definitiveness all around him, and more than anything, he feels scared. Watching the Joker choke stole another layer of his defense. He can’t be so utterly human, can he? He can’t be truly feeling what his eyes are telling. Although denying won’t make it sting any less. Bruce is reaching for the marks near the man’s groin now and starts massaging the sore hips. There’s a shift in the Joker’s demeanor. His features soften. He throws his arms around Bruce and pulls him into another kiss, dragging him down on top of him as he drops back against the pillows.

Bruce snakes his own arms around him and squeezes him tightly. Whatever it is that he feels right now, it’s violent, it’s shards of glass lodging into his guts in slow motion, though what spills out of him is the exact opposite. Somehow, he ends up seamlessly sublimating his pain into warmth. His awareness flickers like a stroboscope, falling in and out of focus. Joker’s lean legs cross over his lower back and push him back inside. Kissing him, fucking him, wrapped in him, entrenched and weightless, Bruce can’t tell what he is anymore. Their bodies slam against each other, he claws at the Joker’s flesh for purchase, moans into his mouth as he pushes deeper and deeper, and his own emotions are suddenly clear to him. In this moment, cushioned and coddled by this monster, Bruce can admit that he was right on all accounts. He’s pure. Complete. And as sane as he can ever get.

He reaches between them, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it fast, remaining as close as possible. He wants to feel him come with everything he has. He drinks up the sweet, muffled moans off the Joker’s lips and smiles. The madman’s fingers claw over his shoulders, and Bruce registers the familiar signs. His kiss losing its edge, his heartbeat spiking, surges of shivers blooming beneath his skin, more and more with each deep, well-aimed thrust, and there’s still tension, as if he were scared that it might end at any second, again, but it doesn’t stop. There’s more, and more, and more, and Bruce is still kissing him like he’s the most precious thing in the world to him, and his hot cock is ramming into him without respite, and his grip is snug and tight, beating him off faster and faster, and then there’s only a long series of screams the Joker isn’t sure are even his. Bruce lifts his head to let him breathe it out, but it seems to never end.

As beautiful as he looks, coming at long last, Bruce can’t admire the Joker’s face for too long since he’s unable to ward it off any longer himself. He clings to him and shoots inside the tight heat, dissolving in it and virtually going blind for a second or two, and yet somehow he manages to keep his hand in motion. When he’s done, he’s barely conscious, but he notices there are still small spurts coming out of the madman with the last couple of squeezes, and he’s trembling with the aftershocks.

Silence shrouds them, and Bruce is finally allowed to simply stare. Joker breathes heavily with his eyes closed. There’s usually some kind of psychotic tightness in his face, but not right now. His eyebrows relaxed, lips parted and slightly stretched in a sated smile—he looks much younger than Bruce had originally thought he was. He can’t be older than him.

He keeps looking, feeling something grow in his throat. Joker might have been brought to this world sometime around his own birthday. Someone gave birth to him. Someone nursed him. Someone raised him. And somewhere along the line, he grew up to be this. And there’s no changing that.

Bruce grinds his teeth. This is where the pain seeps back in, pushing the thick layer of content languor up, an further up, until it starts to dissipate over his head. It only takes a few inches. He knows as soon as he moves further away from the Joker and frees himself from his embrace, it will all come tumbling down, again, and he won’t be any wiser, but he will be that much closer to gaining the ability to take the final step and erase his reflection in the mirror. He would go out without fanfares. There’s no need to make it look like an accident, no need to let Alfred know. But right now, he’s still too close to think about it. Too warm, too safe. He looks in the Joker’s eyes, and nothing has changed. He still feels loved, for the first time since his parents died.

Joker pulls him down and holds him tighter. Bruce doesn’t protest. He presses his face to his neck and curls his fingers over his shoulders.

“Y’know, I think we should stay like this for a while longer,” the madman says softly. Bruce feels his breath ghost through his hair. “Somehow I feel seeing the bigger picture from the distance might be, uh... unpleasant.”

He pets Bruce’s skin without a word.

“For both of us,” he adds after a while, and Bruce could have sworn he heard his voice break. But he doesn’t lift his head to see if it was a tear that just sank in his hair or a droplet of sweat.

 


End file.
